


Mickey Hates Mickey Mouse

by Bartholemew



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Domestic Mickey Milkovich, Gallavich, M/M, Marriage, Mickey Uses His Words, Not rly tho, Parenthood, im a fluffy piece of shit, its a mickey mouse shirt, kind of, the few times in mickey's life that he wears the damn shirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:18:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3559214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bartholemew/pseuds/Bartholemew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the first time Mickey's ever been given a birthday gift, and Ian just had to buy him that exact tank top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The warm weather brought something out in Ian that Mickey couldn’t relate to; who cares if it’s warm or cold outside, he’d walk through anything if he had too. Ian was different, though; as soon as the snow melted and the sun came out, the smile on his face got brighter with each day. Mickey thought it might’ve been coincidence that they’d also been falling for each other while the flowers began to bloom and jackets were replaced with hoodies and t-shirts. 

The rumble of the train against the tracks interrupts a silence they’d been sharing as they passed a cigarette back and forth, and Mickey scowls at the overpass high above their head. 

"So damn loud," Mickey mumbles, his lips wrapped loosely around the nearly burnt out smoke, "Why you look like you just won the lottery, Gallagher?" 

The rattle overhead eventually fades back into their neighbourhoods usual noises, and Ian snags the smoke from Mickey’s lips with a playful smile on his own, “I don’t know, Mick. I just feel good. Can’t I be happy?” 

Mickey snorts as he shakes his head and brushes Ian’s question off, “But you’re, like, so happy that you’re smiling at those fuckin’ birds over there. Something you ain’t tellin’ me?” 

There’s a sheepish expression that replaces Ian’s amusement, and Mickey punches his arm with enough force to get his boyfriend’s undivided attention. A small part of Mickey really hopes the new found joy isn’t the cause of Ian’s interest in someone else, and his chest sinks at the idea, “Thought we didn’t keep secrets, huh? You’re fuckin’ idea, Ian, so fess up.” 

"It’s spring! I told you, I love-" 

"Bullshit," Mickey cuts him off, earning a smirk from Ian. 

With a sigh of surrendering, the red-head shrugs his backpack from his shoulders and peers inside, pulling out a newspaper-wrapped parcel. The word ‘Mick’ is scribbled messily on top with faded sharpie.

Mickey cocks an eyebrow, “The fuck-.” 

The hope in Ian’s face is genuine enough to hurt, “It’s March thirteenth?”

"How the fuck did you find out?" 

As expected, Ian just flashes a nervous smile and hands him the badly wrapped gift, “Happy birthday, Mickey.” 

With a sense of excitement he never had the chance to experience when he was a kid, Mickey eye’s Ian with concern before tearing the paper to pieces, “I mean- You sure?” 

Ian just nods, his freckles standing out on his blushing cheeks. 

Whatever is wrapped in the paper feel’s like fabric, and Mickey let’s the newspaper fall to the cement and is left with what appears to be a tank top. 

"You’re buyin’ me clothes now?" Mickey’s voice is soft and teasing, and Ian gestures for him to hold it up to his chest. The only clothes he’d ever owned had be stolen, handed down from his older brother’s, or bought from the thrift shop; the clean, new shirt feels special beneath his fingers, "Alright, alright; keep your fuckin’ pants on."

As soon as the materials flat against the front of Mickey’s body, a smile breaks out on Ian’s face from ear-to-ear, and the laugh that bubbles from his lip’s is nothing if not loving.

"What the hell-," Mickey looks down, and finally realizes it isn’t a plain, white tank top, "Fucking Mickey Mouse?!" 

The grin doesn’t fall from Ian’s face as he looks expectantly over at Mickey for a reaction, “It’s even cuter than I thought it’d be.”

"Oh, fuck you," Mickey tries not to mirror his boyfriend’s smile, slightly unimpressed by his comparison to a small, cartoon mouse. It’s hard to be annoyed when Ian looks so pleased with how it turned out, "I’m not wearin’ this." 

Ian groans, having had expected that exact response the moment he’d pulled it from the store’s shelf, “Aw, c’mon Mickey. Please?”

"Listen," Mickey says, his voice caught between amused and frustrated, "I already came out once, and I think everyone got the message. I don’t need this shit to help them figure it out." 

"Whatever," Ian gives up, watching as his boyfriend tucks the gift into his back pocket, "One day we'll go to Disneyland, and then you'll be thanking me."

"Disneyland?" Mickey cocks an eyebrow, nudging his boyfriend's arm playfully, "What next, we gunna take a family vacation and fill a photo album?

Ian doesn't actually laugh too hard at the idea, "Maybe. Don't bash Disneyland."

The look behind Ian's eye's has Mickey guessing that he's not totally kidding, and while he's not going to be willing to put the horribly eye-catching shirt on any time soon, he reaches foreword and interlocks their ungloved fingers, "So, does that make you Minnie?"

The touch catches Ian off guard, and his view slowly raises from their clasped hands to Mickey's wide, goofy grin. It takes him a second or two before he's able to respond, "I'm whatever the hell you want, man."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Five Years Later** _

Whenever Ian and Mickey fought, it usually proceeded in two simple steps; they'd beat each other up, and then they'd crawl into bed and show each other just how sorry they were. It was easy, because there was never emotional consequences involved, and it never lasted long enough to keep them apart. Even stupid argument's ended the same way, with the exception of a black eye or a cut lip. Mickey knew what he was doing when it came to acting on impulse, so when it came to something he'd begun to refer to as a silent war, he was clueless on what to do.   
 

It'd been years since the first time Ian had been this mad at him, and after what he'd pulled in the earlier stage of their relationship, he'd probably had a justifiable reason to be pissed off. The quietness between them was almost worse than hearing Ian's choked up voice, yelling at him with teary eyes and desperation behind his words. Instead of arguing, the red-head sat still and calm in their apartment's cramped kitchen, sipping at a coffee that had surely grown cold by now and staring thoughtlessly out the open window as if he were alone.

 

"You want dinner?" Mickey asks as he shrugs off the overall's he wears at work, feeling exhausted from a long day underneath stranger's cars and more than ready to settle into their oversized sofa with a beer, "I could make…we've got beans, soup, somethin' that looks like chicken."

 

As if his word's are nothing but background noise to Ian, his boyfriend doesn't turn his head from their small city-view window, instead lifting a smoke from it's pack and resting it between his lips. It's dark enough in their bachelor that the flame of Ian's lighter brightens the dark kitchen for a moment, but Mickey's soon walking through the doorframe and flicking the light switch. The bulb flicker's a moment before turning on; everything in their apartment is slowly falling apart, but they make it work, because it's home.

 

With a heavy sigh, Mickey realizes he'll probably be deciding on dinner by himself, and grabs a half-empty bag of noodles before leaving a pot of water to boil on the stove. The snap of Mickey's bottle cap popping onto their tiled floor catches Ian's attention, and he turn's his head towards where his boyfriend stood.

 

Mickey gestures to the fridge, "You want a beer?"

 

No word's escape Ian's lip's, but he nods and Mickey takes it as a good sign. It's hard living with someone who's finding it a challenge to look you in the eye.

 

As Mickey reaches foreword to pass him the bottle, Ian's finger's brush against his own and the red-head is quickly looking anywhere but at his boyfriend, because if he did then he'd see the six stitches across his forehead.

 

There's a moment of silence before Mickey can't stand it anymore, "Why you so mad at me, huh?"

 

Ian flinches and lean's back into the kitchen chair; the last time he'd seen Mickey so riled up, the next thing he knew there was blood pouring from his nose and he was on the ground, covered in gravel and gripping at the ache in his jaw. The way his eye's squeeze close at the action makes Mickey's heart sink, and he immediately attempts to calm himself, turning back to the counter and reminding himself to breath.

 

"Fuck, sorry," Mickey mumbles with his back to Ian, pouring the noodles into the bubbling water. It'd been a week and a half ago when this started, the night they'd been driving back from Fiona's house. It wasn't that long a drive home, maybe an hour or two, but the snowstorm they'd found themselves caught in made it ten times longer. The memory is vivid in Mickey's mind, despite the couple drink's he'd finished before climbing into the passenger's seat that night.

 

"I guess I fuckin' know why you're mad."

 

Ian takes a long drag from his smoke before responding, "I told you, like, fifteen times."

 

"Like I don't fuckin' know that," Mickey snaps, quickly pointing at the gash across his forehead. It was supposed to have a bandage on it, but he'd ripped that off as soon as they'd made it out of the hospital.

 

Their eye's finally meet as Ian stand's up from the table, pushing his chair back and moving towards Mickey in one swift, slightly intimidating motion, "Then why the hell didn’t you listen?"

 

"I don’t know, why don't you listen when I tell you to keep a fuckin' knife with you when you walk around at night?" Mickey retaliates as they step closer to one another, "Shit happens, it's not our fuckin' fault. When you get mugged and come home cryin', you want me rubbin' that shit in your face?"

 

"Mickey!" Ian yells, frustrated as he spins around and tries to compose himself, "You- you're fucking head went flying into that god damn dashboard! I saw it happen, like, right the fuck in front of my eyes, alright? Because I had my fucking seatbelt on."

 

Ian's nearly out of breath, and his voice cracks as he continues with his eye's on Mickey's semi-healed stitches, "You could've fucking died, Mick. You could be dead right now, and it'd be my fucking fault.  You could be-"

 

The hint of a tear is threatening to spill onto Ian's freckles, and Micky wraps his palm around the back of his boyfriend's neck, filling the small amount of distance between their bodies, "But I'm not. And now I know better, alright?"

 

The image of Mickey's body whipping foreword as his forehead met the car's dash is all that Ian can focus on, and there's no words to express how scared he'd felt in the few minutes before the ambulance arrived. It'd been like a foggy dream; the moment that Ian slammed down on the break's in attempt to avoid a pile up was the same second in which they were rear ended by a truck much larger than their two-door. It wasn't anything like a broken nose, because the blood was gushing from the open gash and soaking Ian's shirt, which he'd wrapped around the wound.

 

"The doctor said the only reason you didn't die on that stupid cot was 'cause I covered it," Ian admits and Mickey's wide-eyed for a minute before he continues, "What if I was never in the army? What if I had no idea what to do, and you bled out."

 

Mickey want's to tell him that's not what happened, so it shouldn’t matter, but that doesn't seem to matter to Ian. The sound of a phone ringing make's both their head's turn, and after further examination, Mickey scoops up the blue-cased cellphone off the counter, "It's yours."

 

Ian catches his phone mid-toss, beginning to argue with someone who Mickey could easily assume was his manager. With a heavy sense of guilt that he was fairly positive wouldn't fade until Ian stopped looking at him as if he were already dead, Mickey gives the noodles a quick stir before disappearing behind the wall of curtain's they called a bedroom. Their dresser wasn't much more than a home-built shelf, but in the very bottom is a black and white tank top Mickey hasn’t thought about since the day they'd moved in.

 

The sight in the mirror makes Mickey laugh aloud, and he run's a hand through his hair and contemplates whether walking out of the room like this might make Ian ten times angrier. As soon as he hears the click of an ended phone call, he emerges from the curtained barrier.

 

It doesn't take Ian longer than a second to recognize the shirt; he'd bought it for him month's after they'd met, and it'd been missing in action since that day.

 

"Mickey fucking mouse," Ian mutters, trying to resist the urge to smile, "I can't believe you still have that."

 

"Listen," Mickey's voice is calmer now, and he lean's next to Ian on the counter, "That was probably fuckin' scary- if it were you, I probably would've been runnin' to the hospital with you over my shoulders. I'm not gunna deny that I got fucking lucky, having you there to save my stupid ass."

 

"That's not what I meant."

 

Mickey chug's back a swig of beer, "But it's fuckin' true. I'm not gunna do that again, alright?"

 

After day's of waiting, the familiar smile he'd been patiently hoping for finally erupted across Ian's face, "You look super fucking cute right now."

 

Mickey want's to argue with that, but there's little he can do when Ian looks like he can finally breath again, "If we're ever gunna make it to Disneyland, I should probably start wearing my seatbelt. Florida's a long fuckin' drive."

 

"That's true," Ian's grin is contagious, and he slides an inch closer to Mickey and run's a hand up his back, "You know what else is true?"

 

"What?"

 

Ian's hand is trailing down the front of Mickey's pants as he lean's closer, "Mickey Mouse is kind of turnin' me on right now."

 

Mickey snort's louder than he has in a while, playfully shoving Ian back, "That's gross, man. Kid's show, remember?"

 

"Yeah, but you make it sexy."

 

"Alright, fuck it," Mickey smiles back, and soon they're falling back onto the sofa, body's intertwined as they share the cushions. While the noodles are quickly forgotten about, Ian doesn’t let Mickey take the shirt off for at least the first five minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Ten Years Later** _

Everyone say's that a wedding is the best day in any man's life, if it's a marriage that's going to last. While Mickey was just about positive that him and Ian we're prepared to spend the rest of their lives together, he was still more nervous than excited. The tremble in his hand's was making the ripped paper between his fingers shake back and forth, and no amount of fixing his tie and pacing the floor was enough to slow his racing heart. This is the day he'd been anticipating for month's on end, he'd even invited a few people he'd met in their new city and Mandy, his little sister who he hadn't seen in years. She was out there, sitting in the pew's along with all their friends and family, and Ian was out there, too.

 

"For fuck's sake," Mickey mumbles to himself, trying to shake off the jitters. He hasn't seen Ian since last night, as his sisters had insisted they sleep in separate hotel rooms and follow the 'classic' wedding rules, and because Debbie was so good at begging and Fiona happened to be quite convincing, they spent the night texting each other pictures and dirty messages instead. He wasn't nervous last night, but everything had suddenly become so real.

 

It wasn't as if he didn't want to marry Ian- they'd practically moved to a whole new city in order to make this a possibility, so there wasn’t a doubt in Mickey's mind that this was right. Only, the idea of walking through the main aisle while everyone stared as he read a shitty list of vows to a man both more handsome and charming then him, made him slightly dizzy.

 

What he hoped had been only a minute has quickly transitioned into three, and the doors leading into the hall were still closed.

 

"Get your shit together," Mickey attempts to motive himself, and walk's up to the large door's, pressing his palm against the surface. Just before he's about to push them open, they're pulled apart from someone on the inside.

 

The  large, stained glass window behind where Ian is standing is letting in the evening sun's rays, shining through his styled, red hair. Like Mickey had expected, everyone in the pew's immediately turn's their head's to find Mickey, standing at the entrance seemingly dumbfounded as he stands still for a moment. The stares don't matter anymore, because the only person Mickey can see is Ian Gallagher, seemingly angelic as he waits patiently with a smile on his freckled face.

 

It doesn't take long before Fiona's sliding up beside him, wrapping her arm through his and whispering, "You sure know how to make an entrance- you forget the cue?"

 

Mickey look's over at her, "What cue?"

 

With a small guffaw, Fiona begins to lead him down the hall; while it was supposed to be a parent that walked one down the aisle, she was the one that Ian and Mickey looked up to most, and that's what counted most when they were still back in Chicago.

 

His soon to be sister-in-law pinches his arm as they're about halfway down the aisle, and Mickey still hasn’t taken his eye's off Ian but his step's are short and quick and his breath his starting to come out in puffs, "You doing alright?"

 

"Uh," Mickey tries to respond, but they're nearing the step's and he's having a hard time forming a coherent sentence, "Will be, I think."

 

As soon as they reach the stage, Ian quickly step's foreword and grab's Mickey's hand; the first thing he notices is the shake in his partner's finger's, and the grin from his face fades as they take their places in front of the officiant. While the officiant begins to introduce himself to their small audience of people, Ian squeezes Mickey's arm and whispers under his breath, "You're shaking- you okay?"

 

Mickey only nod's; everything about this moment is overwhelming, and he tries to focus on the officiant's words.

 

There's another squeeze at his finger's, and when Mickey look's back at his fiancé, he's undressing right there on the stage.

 

"Ian, what the fuck- keep those buttoned up."

 

The officiant laughs and waves his hands, "We aren’t there yet!"

 

"Sorry, sorry," Ian grins, and as the last button fell from his suit jacket, the tank top he'd been wearing underneath was clear for everyone to see. Their eye's meet as the cartoon mouse on Ian's shirt becomes the centerpiece of his outfit, "Alright, my bad. Continue."

 

The sight is one that not only causes a blush to rise in Mickey's cheek's but also provokes half the people in the room to burst out laughing. No one else knows why it's bringing a tear to his eye's, and maybe it doesn't even make sense to Mickey, but in that moment, the whole night makes sense. Looking around, Mandy is smiling in the pews, sitting next to the rest of the girl's in their small but tight-knit family. They're all wearing bright blue dresses, and all the guy's have matching ties. There's flowers and ribbons and banners with their names on it, and the officiant is quickly nearing the part of his speech that won't work without his go-ahead.

 

"We come now to the word's that Ian and Mickey want to hear the most today," The officiant gestures to both men, who aren’t looking at him but at each other with goofy grin's and tear-filled eye's, "the word's that take them across the line of being engaged to being married. Before you declare your vows to each other, I want you to confirm that it is indeed your intention to be married today."

 

Mickey reaches up to wipe his cheek, and Ian does the same; they're both laughing softly as the officiant asks, "Ian Gallagher, do you come here freely and without reservation to give yourself to Mickey Milkovich in marriage? If so, say I do."

 

Their hand's are clasped together as Ian tightens his grip, and Mickey has to will himself not to cry when Ian confidently answers with a simple, "I do."

 

As the officiant repeats himself, Mickey breathes deeply in and out; if it weren't for the fact that Ian was wearing such a ridiculously baggy mickey-mouse tank top, this might've ended up with him having a panic attack instead of managing to say the word's, "I do."

 

They're about to lean in when the officiant interrupt's them with a warm-hearted chuckle, "Still not there yet!"

 

"Fuck," Mickey lean's back, an inch away from kissing Ian and more than ready to do so. The officiant kindly reminds them that they're expected to read vow's now, and Ian clear's his throat, no little scrap of paper in his hand's when he begins to speak.

 

"Mickey," Ian smiles as the name slip's from his lip's for what was probably the millionth time, and it still sound's as sweet as it did the first time he'd heard it. There's a moment of silence while Ian, the one who can usually keep his cool between the two of them, wipes a tear from his cheek and tries once more to clear his choked-up throat.

 

"Sorry," He mumbles, but Mickey isn't complaining. It's a moment later when Ian start's to recite his vow's, "There's a lot of stuff I wanted to tell you, right now; how much I love you, how much you mean to me, and how lost I'd be without you. Only, it'd take me til tomorrow."

 

There's an 'aw' from Mandy, who finally catches Mickey's eye's. They share a comfortable smile before Mickey look's back up at his soon to be husband and the cartoon mouse hung over his chest.

 

"Instead, I'll tell you why. I love you because you protect me, Mickey. You have my back, always, no matter what I've gotten myself into," Ian's voice cracks as he resists the urge to cry, watching as Mickey does the same, "You mean the world to me, because you are my world, my sun, and my god damn stars. I'd be lost without you, because you've given me a place to feel like I belong somewhere. If it couldn’t come home to you I wouldn't want to go home at all. I loved you when we were eighteen, I love you now, and I'll love you when we're dragging our kid's into Disneyland."

 

Mickey's sniffle fades into a warm hearted chuckle, and he mouth's the word's, 'I love you, too.'

 

The officiant smiles and gestures to Mickey, who's having a hard time remembering what it is he's supposed to do. The wedding would've been near perfect if they'd ended the ceremony now; he could've fallen into Ian's arm's and forgotten about the crowd for a minute in two, but the paper in his hand's reminds him of the vow's he'd written earlier that month.

 

"Fuck," He mutter's, scanning the word's on the page; they didn't come close to what Ian had just said, and he decides last moment to shove the paper back into his pocket, "Alright."

 

"Hey," Ian smiles, trying to reassure him as Mickey stutter's on his word's, "It's okay- it's just us. You, me, and the mouse, alright?"

 

The breath he's been holding in comes out with a laugh, "Yeah, right."

 

Whatever he'd written on the paper weren't his own word's; one of his friend's from the garage had given him a half assed copy of his vow's that he'd read his wife once. They didn't seem important in the long run, because whether he expressed his feelings aloud, Ian surely knew just how much Mickey loved him.

 

Closing his eye's, Mickey tries to voice how he feels in this exact moment, "Ian fuckin' Gallagher, I never thought we'd end up here. At the same time, kinda always knew we would."

 

The crowd laughs awkwardly at that, but Ian knows what he's trying to say. Mickey shakes his head, trying to bring up something a little more positive, "I mean, back then we were just two fuckin' punks, you know? We were just a couple Southside kids, but I think you n' me had something special. I didn't let anybody fuck with us, and you made sure I kept my head on straight; I think that’s why I started hangin' out with you, you know, 'cause you cared when no one else gave a shit. You didn’t want nothin' from me but commitment, and you… I owe everythin' to you, Ian. You saved me, you…you fuckin' set me free."

 

There's a hollow silence in the crowd, and Mickey realizes he's been staring at his shaking hand's while he spoke. Looking up, everyone's eye's are wide and teary, including Ian.

 

The officiant then began to talk again, "You may-"

 

Mickey doesn’t have to wait this time, he knows where this is going. The applause makes them both smile, their lips falling together in relief and excitement and need as they wrap their arm's around each other and lose themselves in the cued music and sound's of cheering. After a moment or two, they grab each other's hand's tightly and start back down the aisle with grins across their blushing faces.

 

Just before they'd exit through the back door, Mickey spins around and yells, "I'm fuckin' married!"

 

There was a resulting response of cheers and holler's, to which Ian counters with, "Drink's and party at the bar; we'll meet you there!"

 

"If you know what he mean's," Lip, Ian's older brother, yells back from the crowd.

 

Mickey shrugs sheepishly and Ian winks at his husband; he wasn't wrong. There was no doubt in Mickey's mind that as soon as they'd found some privacy, they'd be taking everything but their shiny new wedding band's off, including the mouse t-shirt which still had them smiling from ear to ear by the time they neared the limo prepared to bring them to the bar for the after-party. As they crawl into the long stretch back seat, Ian is quick to shrug off his jacket and flaunt the goofy tank top.

 

"I fuckin' love you," Mickey repeats for the second time, looking his husband up and down before sliding next to him on the thin leather seats, "I do- you're a fuckin' goofball, you know that?"

 

Ian's nearly hysterical, laughing at the absurdity of how they're wedding photo's were bound to turn out once they'd been developed, and how outrageous he must've looked to just about everyone but Mickey, "I knew you'd freak out!"

 

"I wasn't freaking out, I was just a lil fuckin' nervous," Mickey tries to defend his initial wedding jitters, and after a moment, he let's Ian rest his head on his shoulder and sighs happily, "It look's better on you."

 

Ian shakes his head against Mickey's chest, "Impossible."


	4. Chapter 4

__**Three years after the wedding**  
  


The hospital was somewhere that Ian had never expected he'd get excited about visiting. When he was still a kid, the only reason they'd ever need to go to the hospital if there was a broken bone or a gash big enough to scare Fiona into rushing them into the emergency room. Besides that, the Gallagher's dealt with their wounds through make-shift bandages and a shit ton of aspirin.

 

It'd been around eight months since they'd met Svetlana, pregnant and completely unsure if she wanted to keep her baby. They'd found her outside their apartment, barely covered except for a small dress and the fake fur coat she had wrapped her legs with. She hadn't been easy to deal with, even after Ian offered her a place to stay and a plate of food. Her accent was thick and sometimes hard to understand, and her responses were snappy and unimpressed; it didn't stop her from clearing her plate, though. After a couple days, she'd finally admitted the truth; she was pregnant, and there was no way she could work the streets anymore. She wanted a new start, but she'd never meant to start a family.

 

That day, Ian and Mickey talked in hushed voices as she fell asleep on their sofa. They were sharing a beer under the only light left on in their apartment, and the clock was nearing two in the morning. Neither had been able to fall asleep, both worried about the younger looking woman on their sofa.

 

Mickey was looking over at the muted television screen, "What's her fuckin' name, again?"

 

"Svetlana," Ian had answered in a thoughtful tone, and after a moment of silence, he'd asked, "What if we help her?"

 

The ring on Mickey's finger clinked against the side of the beer bottle as he passes it to Ian, "Yeah- how we supposed to do that?"

 

There was a look on his husband's face that made Mickey wonder just how serious he was when he responded, "We'll adopt the kid."

 

He was very serious, it turned out; almost a year later they were pacing their one bedroom apartment throwing together a bag of blankets, diapers, and baby clothes in preparation for the newborn. While Ian was bursting with excitement, Mickey was contemplating every possible way they could fuck up parenthood.

 

Mickey's rifling through a shopping bag when he asks, "I mean, what if she- I don't know, get's sick?"

 

"Hospital," Ian replies casually, because they'd gone through this time and time again, "Which is where we need to be, like, right now."

 

Their home suddenly looks like a path of child-sized, possibly dangerous obstacles, and Mickey looks around with worry in his eyes and his hands high in the air, "How's she gunna crawl around in here? We got fuckin' breakables, man."

 

"She hasn’t even come out of the damn womb yet Mickey, I think we can take it easy for the first few weeks," Ian's tossing the bag over his shoulder and grabbing the newly-purchased baby-seat from the kitchen table. They'd just purchased a one floor, two bedroom house, perfect for a family, and it was still in really good shape despite Mickey's recent complaints. He huffs out a sigh before turning to his husband, "Well, you ready?"

 

"Wait, I don't think we remembered her shoes," Mickey stutter's out, his hands running through his mid-length hair as he spins on his heels and look's for something that was packed ages ago, "Ian, where's those god damn shoes? We need the fuckin' shoes."

 

"Mickey, we've got-"

 

"How's she supposed to leave the hospital without fucking shoes?!"

 

There's no logic in Mickey's statement, because they could easily wrap her in a blanket and bring her home without shoes; he knew he wasn't making any sense, but there was an overwhelming sense of responsibility that he'd been previously looking foreword too, but it was inevitable that he'd doubt himself eventually. The Milkovich's had a history of horrible parenting techniques, and Mickey wasn't sure he'd be able to break that pattern. He'd never really gained experience with children, and he'd never even considered having his own until his little family felt started to feel one member short, so the whole experience was new to him.

 

Mickey's stress was obvious in the way he tossed the pillows off the couch and peered under the cushions, and Ian dropped the armful of object's he was holding. Catching Mickey's attention, Ian crossed the room quickly and wrapped his arm's around the back of his husband's neck.

 

"Listen to me," Ian was speaking softly, just barely loud enough for Mickey to hear, "You're going to be a fucking fantastic father, alright?"

  
"Like hell," Mickey muttered, avoiding Ian's stare, "What the fuck do I know, I was raised by Terry god damn Milkovich. What a great fucking role model, right?"

 

Ian shook his head stubbornly, tightening his hold and pulling his husband closer as if to emphasize his point, "But you aren't Terry. If you're Terry, then I'm Frank. Do I fucking look like Frank to you?"

 

There wasn't much Mickey could argue with there, and he shook his head, "You know you aren't like fuckin' Frank."

 

"Well, then smarten the fuck up Mickey," Ian kissed his cheek, and then his hand fell to Mickey's and their finger's tied together, "C'mere. I have an idea."

 

Mickey still can't shake the feeling that he'll ruin the baby like he ruin's everything else, but he let's Ian lead them into his bedroom. As his husband lean's into the closet where they usually keep such toy's used in the bed, Mickey raises an eyebrow curiously, "You really think we have time? Damn, Gallagher…"

 

Ian's laughing as he spins around, holding something Mickey was pretty sure couldn't be used in bed.

 

It's been year's since Mickey's thought about the shirt in Ian's hand, and looks up at the red-head as he asks, "'Member when we got in that real bad accident?"

 

The memory isn't as vivid to Mickey as it is for Ian, but he nod's anyways, "Yeah, why?"

 

"I was pretty pissed- you wouldn't wear your seatbelt that day. But, you reminded me of the big picture- Disneyland."

 

Mickey rolls his eyes, "Disneyland?"

 

"I'm not sayin' Disneyland is the answer to all the question's in the universe, I mean, having a family, a life, growing old; all that bullshit. Scary shit happens, but we deal with it head on. I know bein' a dad's scary, but I'm here with you, alright?"

 

The shirt is dangling from Ian's hand's, and Mickey snags it gingerly from his loose grip, "You know I never even changed a diaper before? I'm thirty-one year's old, Ian."

 

Ian laughs softly and takes a seat beside him on their king-sized mattress, "It's not that bad after the first few times, I promise."

 

"That's not what I mean," Mickey sighs, and Ian gently rub's his back, "I just hope I don't fuck the kid up."

 

"Impossible," Ian mumbles into his neck, planting kisses along his stubble-covered jaw, "Wear the shirt."

 

Mickey could almost snort, "Hell no."

 

The warm breath on Mickey's neck is making it harder for him to leave, but Ian's insistent with his kissing as he whispers, "Baby's love Mickey Mouse."

 

"She doesn't know shit yet," Mickey responds with a laugh, his voice a little hitched with distraction.

 

"Fine," Ian smiles, his teeth grazing Mickey's soft skin, "I like it."

 

The sound of Ian's phone going off reminds them that Svetlana was admitted at least an hour ago, and Mickey groan's as the noise fill's the room. If they'd had fifteen more minutes to spare, Mickey would've had no other choice but to kiss Ian back.

 

"Jesus Christ, Ian." 

 

Ian's grin is almost childlike as he stands up and fixes his shirt, "You really should wear it."

 

It might be because Ian can be both demanding and hot at the same time, or maybe it's because Mickey actually believes it'll make him feel a little more baby-friendly, but he pull's off the t-shirt he'd been wearing and replaces it with the cartoon mouse. It still fit's surprisingly well, and he shakes his head at the clothing's past; there's a picture hung of the two of them, hand in hand in front of the alter- Mickey's near tear's and Ian's smiling proudly, the cartoon ear's peeking out from behind his black-and-white suit.

 

As they're readying themselves for the short drive to the hospital, Ian stops Mickey on the way out the door and look's him in the eye's, hoping to make his point clear once and for all, "We can do this, Mick."

 

Looking down, the only thought in Mickey's mind is 'Disneyland.'

 

"Fuckin' right we can," Mickey grins, leaning in and planting a fat, wet kiss against his husbands mouth before racing ahead, "I'm driving, sucker!"

 

"Mick, you drive too fast," Ian groans, but Mickey's laughing and running to the driver's side door, flipping the red-head off from behind the semi-tinted windows, "How mature."

 

"Too slow," Mickey winks at Ian as he tuck's the car-seat into the backseat, all the while pouting about being shafted to passenger's side. As soon as they shut the doors, Mickey turn's up the volume knob and nods his head to the classic rock pouring from the speakers, "Think she'll like Radiohead?"

 

Ian can't help but laugh, his open palm falling on Mickey's thigh as he pulls quickly out of the gravel driveway, "Sure- what newborn doesn't love rock?"

 

"Shut the fuck up," Mickey tries to sound threatening, but his word's fade into a laugh and he rests his hand atop his husbands, his thumb grazing Ian's wedding band, "Ian, holy shit. Wait, we forgot to fuckin' pick a name!"

 

The car swerves along with his realization, and Ian reaches over and grab's the wheel, panicking as he tries to steer them back in the right direction, "Mick, the road! Watch the road!"

 

"What the hell are we going to do?"

 

"Uh," Ian tries to calm his husband, his hand's gesturing to nothing as he fails to come up with an idea on the spot, "Fuck, I don’t know. I don't think it really matters, does it?

 

"Doesn't matter if you want a kid named fuckin' 'kid,' I guess," Mickey responds with a harshness in his words, immediately catching the way Ian eye's him with concern, "Shit, sorry. Seriously, though- shouldn't we have thought about this?"

 

"We'll think of something," Ian assures him, smiling at Mickey's outfit, "We could call her mouse. Mickey's mouse?"

 

"Perfect," Mickey roll's his eyes, looking over his shoulder at Ian, "You're a genius."

 

Ian laughs and roll's down the window, letting the warm air breeze through as he set's his arm on the door, "She'll let us know."


End file.
